


cashing in my bad luck or calling it a draw

by deniigiq



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s, Buck starts off kind of a jerk but hes well meaning I promise, Child Abuse, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, and he sure as fuck is not a rapist, and it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13536426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deniigiq/pseuds/deniigiq
Summary: He kept running through the events of Thursday night, trying to figure out if Steve left some clue about where he might have gone and determinedly not panicking about Steve leaving him forever. Pressing his palms into his eyes didn’t help no matter how much he did it. The tightening in his throat was also very distracting.(Steve Rogers is a rape survivor and Buck accidentally triggers him; he tries to understand.)





	cashing in my bad luck or calling it a draw

**Author's Note:**

> References to rape of a minor below - nothing too graphic because absolutely not.
> 
> Steve Rogers is a rape survivor and Buck accidentally stumbles on one of his triggers during an argument. Steve panics and needs to get away to feel safe; Buck knows he fucked up and tries to fix it.

Steve Rogers was twenty-one years old in 1938; his bottom lip was thin and bloody from where he’d been chewing it. He hadn’t been home in 20 hours because he was terrified of best thing that had ever happened to him, and the best thing that had ever happened to him had left that place, a cigarette clenched between his teeth and his coat still hanging on the peg by the door.

Steven Grant Rogers was twenty-one years old in 1938 with a busted lip when James Buchanan Barnes put a fist at his neck and told him he was a selfish idiot who didn’t give a shit about anyone else with a crease in his brow that told Steve he meant it.

Steve Rogers was twenty-one years old, sitting in a pew in an empty church with bloody lips and aching stones for eyes, when he first wondered if all the screaming and fighting and broken glass ground into his knees and knuckles was worth it if he was still scared of everything anyways.

There was a choking, clawing in his throat as he thought about Buck’s bloody fingers locked in his collar, physically dragging him to his feet and forcibly pulling him back to their apartment. Steve thought he knew every way those fingers and knuckles pressed together, but he was wrong. Buck clenched his fingers in Steve’s collar so that he didn’t clench them around his throat.

And Steve had been so, so scared. It made his throat lock and his eyes burn.

He swallowed again and again to remind himself that he could, that this wasn’t an asthma attack and even if it was, he was fucking selfish for bringing one on himself. Even his fucking lungs were trying to insight Buck to come back, using pity to make the storm stop. It made swallowing even harder, the thought that pity was his body’s avenue of defense here. He pulled up his feet onto the pew and smashed his face into his knees to smother his harsh breathing.

He’d told himself to stay home, but his feet took him to church and his high chest ached like the air was cold and thin and he crashed over the edge and drew water from the aching stones in his face when he thought, poetically, that maybe the storm would pass if he went further out to sea. He coughed and the mutinous rattle and throb of his chest gave his throat permission to let out a sob, which cascaded into two and then three and then an endless stream of coughing and choking.

He’d lost his home when his ma died and now he’d gambled and lost his home in Bucky. He blamed his pride for both of them, but at least for his ma, he’d been part of a bigger set of tragedies which led to her end. Buck, nah, that was all him. He swallowed hard again and cut off the flow of sobs. He wasn’t allowed to use pity to get out of this one. He breathed shakily, in and out, through the rattling of his lungs and the swelling in his throat. It took several minutes but eventually the tightness loosened and he could lower his feet without feeling light-headed.

He pushed his head up straight and stared unseeing at the altar. He understood, and he needed to do something. Buck hadn’t been home for more than a minute in months; he got off work in the evening and graced the apartment for only the whirlwind it took him to change clothes and slick his hair before he was flying out to the store for some cigarettes or out with the girls or out with the guys. Steve had seen him maybe three times in a week and a half. He hadn’t taken his coat when he’d abandoned the apartment yesterday, but Steve had been gone for nearly 20 hours and 18 minutes; he’d had more than enough time to come back to get it, have a nap, a cup of coffee, and be back out the door to the cinema with Roxanne.

Steve picked himself up and dragged his fingertips across the polished tops of the pews on his way out. He needed to do something.

 

 

It was early enough in the morning and late enough at night that Steve didn’t encounter anyone on his walk back to the apartment. No one was awake to harass him about his sloppy tie and lack of coat. He creaked up the old stairs and only realized when he’d gotten to the top that he hadn’t taken his keys. His eyes felt so heavy. He pushed back the brick they used as a doorstop and fished out the spare key from under it. It was grimy, but it unlocked the door and Steve brought it in with him when he crossed the threshold.

He tucked the key under the bowl containing his own keys on the short table by the door. Buck’s keys weren’t there, but that didn’t mean anything because Buck was forever leaving his keys everywhere but in their home in that bowl.

He looked up to see Buck’s coat still hanging from the peg and felt his throat start closing again. He breathed hard through his nose a few times until the pressure eased and he made his way to the bedroom. He dropped to his knees beside his iron-framed bed and dug out an old wooden crate from beneath it.

When his ma found out she was pregnant, his da in training in Florida sent her a crate of oranges in celebration. She kept the crate and it was Steve’s cradle until he was too big to fit and it was the only thing he’d ever had that both of them had touched. He crammed some of the bits and bobs in the room into it and then carried it into the main room and then filled some of the left-over space with a sketchbook and a few paints and brushes. He set the box by the door next to the table with the key-bowl.

He condensed the shit on his workstation so that it fit into the compartmentalized boxes underneath it and then scrubbed the paint off the angled artist’s desk. He stacked the drawings scattered around the desk and rolled them into a neat tube which he secured with a piece of butcher’s string from the kitchen. He tucked the tube into his crate by the door.

He went back into the bedroom and stripped the bed. He folded the sheets as neatly as he could and left them sitting on top of the square he made out of the quilt. He smoothed down his other pair of pants and his two other shirts and took them and the balls he’d made out of his socks and underwear and used them to fill the crate by the door to the top. He took his ma’s Claddagh ring from the top of the shared dresser and dropped it into the bag he used to contain the brushes in the crate.

He looked at his box and took one last look at the living room and bedroom, then hauled the crate into his arms and let the door fall closed as he thumped heavily down the stairs.

 

 

Buck cursed at the fucking sticking door and gave it a good shake to wrench it open. It finally gave up the ghost and he swung in, trying but failing not to slam it behind him. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and dragged himself across the room to flop down on the sofa. He threw his arm over his face to block out the rising sun.

The place smelled mustier than normal. He grumbled, sighed, and decided it was probably because Stevie, the compulsive cleaner, hadn’t been home yet. He craned his neck up just a bit to check for Steve’s coat, just in case. It was still hanging there next to the one he’d forgotten the other day, so Buck dropped his head back under his arm. His dad had taken pity on him and lent him his own giant jacket at work the next day, but it was getting warm enough that he didn’t need it until that evening. His dad had also read the darkness in his face and asked if Steve’s dumb ass was out confronting the scum of New York again. Buck felt a weird writhing in his chest at someone else calling Steve a dumbass, but he’d heaved a great sigh that made his dad laugh and scrub the top of Buck’s head before heading off to hand out instructions for the day.

He heaved one of his now classic sighs and rolled off the sofa onto the floor between the feet of the coffee table and the couch. They still hadn’t found a decent rug to throw over the wood floors, which made the fall more unpleasant than he’d anticipated. He could use some luck or sympathy from the universe any time now, but the universe wasn’t interested so he levered himself up onto an arm and scanned the room while trying to decide if he needed coffee or a nap. It was Saturday, so he had the luxury of bumming around a bit before the urge to actually do something with the day kicked in.

Oh. It looked like Steve had been home after all. His workstation was cleaned up and the paints looked like they’d been stored away, probably back to their home under the desk. Steve only cleaned his station when a commission was done, so he must have finished the one for Mr. Thompson while Buck was out pouting like a jerk.

He flopped back onto the floor and sighed loud enough that he knew Steve would be unable to resist coming out to bitch at him if he was home. No dice, though. He must have come home to finish the commission and take it across town to the old man. Why the hell he would take it at six in the morning was beyond Buck, but Steve was a nervous kind of guy. Buck decided that he needed coffee and then probably breakfast, which meant that they needed groceries. He swung himself up, narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table, and then dragged his feet into the kitchen.

He set a pot to boil and poked around the cabinets to see if they had anything edible for breakfast. There was half a loaf of bread in the breadbox and a few ounces of butter in the dish. They needed potatoes, though, and cabbage. And carrots. And probably something sweet as an ‘I’m sorry I was a dramatic dick’ to Steve when he got back from Mr. Thompson’s place. He felt bad, even though he wasn’t sure if he was sorry yet. Untrue. He was sorry that he’d been rough. One look at Steve’s scraped elbow and the tear in his shirt though and Buck was so fucking tired.

He was also pissed, because this happened like clockwork. Buck went out for the night and Steve went out for a fat lip and garbage ground into his joints. Buck would find Steve at the end of some guy’s fist, and Steve would bitch the whole time Buck mopped up the blood. Then the next night, he’d catch Steve soaking and patching his sleeves with an expression caught somewhere between tears and fury. Lately it has been getting worse and Buck couldn’t figure out what it was that was motivating this particular bout of self-flagellation. He’d counted the days until Mrs. R’s death day and he’d counted the coins in their rent money tin and he’d counted the hours that Steve had slept, but it all summed up to a fat load of nothing.

So yeah, two days ago he’d just lost it a little when he saw Steve’s busted lip and his puffy eye. He didn’t have the patience to be gentle when he knew the very next day the other eye would be black and that lip would barely be scabbing. Steve was never going to win any of these fights. Never. He just didn’t fucking get it no matter how gently Buck told him, no matter how many times people outright told him he was an idiot. If pneumonia didn’t take him first, he was going to put himself into an early fucking grave right next to his ma doing that shit, and Buck was gonna have to deal with the fallout and the rumors and the self-righteous pity. Steve told him to “just leave it, Buck” and Buck’s hands shook hard and he’d run out of ways to get Steve to _listen_. His hand grabbed Steve’s collar and he was suddenly so angry at the fucking audacity of situation that he couldn’t speak. Steve shut up for once which was gratifying, but that didn’t silence the voice at the back of Buck’s head, right where the skull meets the neck, and when they’d gotten home he’d actually voiced the words dancing there. Steve looked like he’d been slapped and was red-eyed and _furious_ and yeah, Buck was suddenly furious too, so he did what his sis was always telling him to do in that reasonable, annoying tone of hers and he left to cool down.

He chain-smoked a bit, had some violent internal arguments with himself, and then stayed the night at his sister’s place. He came home to change for work, but Stevie had left so he decided they’d talk when he came home from work. But Stevie hadn’t been back, which made Buck feel a little (a lot) worse and his inner mother-hen got to clucking. He had a few more cigarettes and Dan caught him out on the fire escape and invited him out for a few drinks and he was feeling tightly wound enough that he knew any conversation he and Steve did have was probably not gonna go the direction he wanted.

And yeah, maybe he stayed out later than he should have; but coffee and breakfast were one of the most effective peace offerings between him and Steve.

And the coffee was boiling over.

He swore and pulled the pot off the heat, letting the bubbles settle before scrounging for some mugs, which, huh, were still in the sink. Steve really hadn’t been home; there was no way he’d leave dishes in the sink for more than a day. Either that, or he was beyond pissed. But if Buck knew Steve’s brand of petty (and he did), he would have washed just one of the mugs and left Buck to look after his own dishes.

He put the pot back onto the stove and went to the bedroom just to check. Maybe Steve was home, but was just depressed-sleeping. He did that sometimes--sometimes he did it for days which scared the shit out of Buck. Depressed-sleeping Steve did things like half-way organizing his workstation and not hearing Buck talking to him.

He looked in the bedroom. Then he threw himself back into the doorway look at the workstation with his pulse rocketing in his neck.

On the way out the door, he saw the keys in the bowl and he flew down the stairs with his own keys jangling after him.

 

 

Buck pounded on Mr. Gregory’s door loudly enough that the old man opened it in record time. Steve had finished his shift yesterday just fine, but he’d been pretty quiet.

Mr. Thompson raised his eyebrows and stated that Steve brought the commission over three days ago and he hadn’t seen him since.

The Barber twins said they’d seen him heading towards the train station.

Roxanne and Betty hadn’t seen him and nor had the Rosenbergs or the Zotovs or the Katzynskys and Buck was pretty sure he’d knocked up half of Brooklyn when he groaned, spun himself in a frustration circle, and jogged off towards St. Paul’s.  

Father Matthew hadn’t seen Steve, but Sister Catherine had. She said he’d been praying pretty late and promised her that he’d lock up when he left and he had. She didn’t know where he’d gone after that. Both she and Father Matthew looked pretty upset so Buck concocted some lie (for real, God help him) about a park trip he’d slept through and held it together long enough to get outside of the church.

He kept running through the events of Thursday night, trying to figure out if Steve left some clue about where he might have gone and determinedly not panicking about Steve leaving him forever. Pressing his palms into his eyes didn’t help no matter how much he did it. The tightening in his throat was also _very distracting._

 _Think. THINK._ He told himself. He and Steve fought a thousand times every week. What was different. Where was the stumble in their routine. Was there a moment where they’d paused for too long? A moment where someone had stumbled? What did he say? He couldn’t remember exactly, his blood had been so hot.

 

 

Steve was queer; he’d known this since he was fifteen years old. He’d sobbed into his ma’s lap when she’d cornered him and told him to stop lying to her. She didn’t seem as surprised or disgusted as he thought she’d be. She just pulled him into her arms like she had when he was little and sick and dying. She made a few jokes about it, raising an eyebrow at young guys passing by and then looking directly at him to make him blush and hide his face in his hands. She’d done it less when she was in the hospital. She never told anyone and had coached Steve where he could go and what to do and say if anything ever happened with the police or with someone who made him uncomfortable. Steve was lucky for his ma; his friends told him stories about what they had to do with their friends and families (if they even still had them).

They were good friends. He talked to Hanna and Milly about finding a place to stay and they, mercifully, didn’t ask why he needed it. They told him to talk to Frankie and Tom about the attic room in their building next door. Milly warned him it wasn’t great, but there was a room above Jacob Bron’s that someone just left and it was on week to week rent. Shortly after, Steve talked to Tom who confusedly asked him what the hell he needed a room for before Frankie hurtled through the door to slam his hand over Tom’s mouth and say that the room was Steve’s if he needed it.

So 4 hours after he left home, he had a place to put his box. It was a tiny, empty space and it dredged up a hazy, vague memory of the boarding house his ma stayed in when he was very small. It was supposed to be for single women, and he was just a tiny thing back then, so during the day Mrs. McGrey watched him and during the night Ma taught him how to keep quiet in the tiny room she was given. If she heard someone coming, she’d tuck him into his crate-cradle and slide it under the bed. There had been a few inspections and close calls before she’d saved up enough money to take them to an actual apartment.

There was no Ma, though, and no Bucky, so it wasn’t home. But there was a bed and there was a window, so it was close enough for the moment. Steve flopped onto the musty bed and rested his weary bones for a few hours.

He woke up congested. His eyes were sore and crusty and he had so much to figure out now; he was overwhelmed and exhausted and felt very, very alone.

He was scared that Buck would be mad and he was even more scared that he would come find him. He never thought he’d be scared of Bucky, but his lungs and throat evacuated all of their air when he thought about Buck’s fist balling and clenching just to the right of his neck. He felt dried out, but his eyes burned thinking about it.

He’d never told Buck, he’d only told Ma. When he was fourteen, he and some kids from school would go down to the dockyards and gossip and rough-house a bit; some of them smoked and sometimes they passed around a bottle. Steve went because Buck went. Buck spent a lot of time at the dockyard because that’s where his dad worked; he was comfortable there. Steve was not. There was a guy, a huge guy in Steve’s fourteen-year-old mind, who took his smoke break behind the warehouse adjacent to the one the kids hung out around. He watched them with his cigarette dangling between his fingers.

Buck went on a date one afternoon after school and Steve went to the dockyard with the other kids. He left earlier than the others and, well. The wolf followed him.

Thinking about it past that point sent Steve into a terrifying, uncontrollable state of terror and anger for years afterwards. He was pissed that he’d let himself get into the situation. He ran in circles asking ‘why me?’ He felt his heart pounding when dockyard workers talked to him and smiled at him. Somedays, he  still evaluated every man he passed in the street. It was a relief each time the guy was too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, different color of hair, different facial hair. Seeing that guy again—he wasn’t sure what he would do. He’d think of being picked up, of huge hands on his face, his neck, his wrists, and so much pressure. It would be enough to make him feel like he was slipping.

But he couldn’t tell Buck. Buck was the best guy; he really was. He was handsome and smart and hard-working and compassionate. He was kind, so stupidly kind and patient. Steve made him lose his patience two days ago, that was his fault. He was difficult to like and even harder to love. He didn’t know why Buck stayed and he didn’t question it or he’d convince himself that he didn’t deserve to even talk to him. He knew Buck wouldn’t hurt him, especially not on purpose, but his body didn’t know that apparently. It saw the hands and it felt the tugging and for just a second it told Steve that Buck was going to pick him up and throw him into an alley. Buck was going to slam a hand on his face and grip his jaw so hard he couldn’t open it. And he couldn’t tell Buck because then he’d really lose Buck forever, and even worse: from disgust.

It was better that he left; Buck would be worried and he’d be pissed, but he wouldn’t pry and Steve wouldn’t have to be _so fucking scared_ every day he set foot in the door. Steve wouldn’t accidently confuse the smell of Buck’s cigarettes with ones he’d smelled on that man. He wouldn’t see Buck’s hands and think of ones on his face and his hip. He refused to associate Buck with that man, but he also refused to put himself on the precipice of a panic attack every fucking day of his life. It was different with his Ma, there had been no opportunity for confusion. It had been fine with Bucky, until Buck. Until _he_ made Buck lose his patience.

Anyways, maybe he’d be okay. Maybe he just needed a few days away. Maybe a month. He’d go back and try to make things work. He was making a bigger deal about this than he needed to. It wasn’t as bad as it felt. He just needed to wait this out, and he couldn’t do it around anyone, especially someone who smelled like the docks and cigarettes and bourbon and who was telling him to shut the fuck up and that he was selfish and greedy and just fucking flaunting it—deep breaths.

He could do it.

 

 

Bucky knew Steve was queer. His sister had told him; he was sixteen and sitting up in his room and Becca poked her head in the door and asked to come in. He didn’t know why she asked, it was her room too. She sat down across from him on her bed and told him she’d seen Steve kiss Archie Sanders behind the theatre on Wednesday. He stared at her in disbelief for just a moment, and then asked: “what’s it to you?”

Bucky learned how to sigh from his sister and she did it so much better.

“It’s nothing to me, dummy. What’s it to you?” And Buck didn’t know what she was talking about again.

“What do you mean?” He asked her.

“Well, are you?” She asked in the lowest voice he’d ever heard her use. He realized later she was trying to protect him from their family downstairs.

Buck was having strange feelings. His chest felt two sizes too small and his eyes and cheeks and ears were getting hot and he didn’t know why because he’d never given any thought to that particular question.

“Buck?” Becca asked him gently.

“I’m not—I don’t—I’m—” he didn’t know what he was saying. She stared him down and then her face softened and then he realized that he was kind of crying. He wiped at his face trying to understand what the fuck was happening and why he was upset and why the voice in his head was furiously repeating _Archie Sanders? Archie Sanders?_ Louder and louder. Becca pushed at his legs and he let her sit down next to her and let her tug him into her arms so that he could cry into her shoulder.

“Why—Bec—why am I--?” he asked her. She hugged him tighter.

“Because it’s not you, little brother,” she said. Everything clicked and he realized that he wasn’t sad that Steve was queer. He was _angry_ that it was Archie Fucking Sanders Steve shared himself with and it wasn’t him. Then he was sad because Steve never said anything. He didn’t trust him. And then he was devastated as he realized that maybe he was queer too.

“Becca—” he sobbed, suddenly feeling five years old with a skinned knee and wanting no one else in the world more than his big sis, “What do I do?”

Becca said nothing for a long time, then, her voice wobbling just like his, “I don’t know, Buck.”

He cried harder and heard her hiccup a few times, but she didn’t let go of him and he thanked God for that. Becca told him later that she’d been so scared and that she’d stayed scared ever since. He eventually told her that he wasn’t queer like Stevie was and he went on a thousand dates to prove it. It made Becca feel a little less like he’d get his face beaten in, but he’d never been sure if it made him feel any better. Every date felt a little like a lie and every night with Stevie seemed to confirm it. But they never talked about it.

Except that Bucky knew that a lot of Steve’s friends were queer too. After a tiny breakdown outside the church, he headed towards where he knew Steve’s friend Milly lived. Milly, Steve told him, was a really great _gal_ and if he heard anyone talking any different he’d beat the teeth out of their head or he’d never talk to them again, depending on what was most effective for that person (Buck got the message). Milly was the most reliable person Buck knew in Steve’s circle of friends and pounding on her door at 11am gave him a sense of hope.

She opened the door and gave him the most scathing look he’d gotten that month. He asked if she’d seen Steve and she asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing knocking people up on the Sabbath. He must have made quite a sight because she rolled her eyes heavenward and said,

“He might have stopped by, but I ain’t telling you anything until you tell me what the hell you did to that boy.” And Bucky must have made another face while she glared at him in her doorway because her eyebrows started to climb and she asked, “Wait, you don’t know?” He held his hands out and shrugged.

“Jamie-boy, you really don’t know?”

“Would I be knocking you up on the Sabbath if I knew?”

Milly then bestowed upon him the most pitying look of the month.

“Jamie, he was white as a ghost. He’s scared as shit. You can tell me, I’ll try not to hit you.” Buck noticed that she didn’t promise that she _wouldn’t_ hit him.

“We had a fight—”

“You guys fight every day of the—”

“I know—I got mad and dragged him home from, well you know, and, I think I called him a name or something, but I was so mad I wasn’t thinking and now I can’t remember. And I want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t find him, he hasn’t been home in two days, Milly. I’m out of my head. He left his keys, left his coat, cleaned up his shit. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Milly sucked in a breath and leaned against her doorway. Buck felt horror rising the more he talked. It started in his diaphragm and worked its way into his chest and he started to feel frantic.

“Milly—” he gasped out, “Milly what if he’s left me? I can’t—I didn’t—I don’t—”

“Take a deep breath.” He did. “Stevie’s in apartment 5C next door. He’s scared and hurting and I think he might need you right now.” Buck took another gasp of air. “But you did something, you asshole, and you need to not do it ever again. Ever. Do I make myself clear.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, Tom told me Steve said he was only going to stay for about a week. He’s probably still there now.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Uh-huh. Get.”

Buck got.

 

 

Steve had calmed down enough to realize what he had done and to have another good cry about it before he wanted to punch himself for being so weak. He hadn’t cried so much since his Ma died when he was seventeen. He pulled out her ring and then pulled out his sketchbook and tried to take his mind off Buck and that man. He’d opened the window to clear out some of the must and it helped, especially since it was starting to warm up outside.

He could almost breathe again.

As long as he didn’t think.

He drew a picture of his ma and then tried to imagine his da and then decided that some exercises were more futile than others. His body was tired, but he didn’t want to think so he leaned against the wall on the bed with the sketchbook in his lap.

He woke up to a loud rapping at the door. His heart pounded and every nerve in his body was suddenly alive with adrenaline.

“Stevie?” Buck called, from the other side of the door.

“Stevie? Hey champ, I’m sorry, buddy. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong but please open the door?”

Steve cringed on the bed and pulled his legs up tight against his chest.

“Steve? C’mon I know you’re in there. I don’t—why? What’s wrong?”

Steve let him shout; maybe he’d give up if he just stayed quiet and small.

“I’m not leaving without you pal, you’re not the only asshole in this unit.”

Buck sounded like determined flattened eyebrows and Steve stifled a laugh. Buck must have heard it though because he paused for a moment before Steve heard him sigh and put his back to the door before sliding down to sit leaning against it. Bucky learned to sigh from his sister and he was very good at it.

“I talked to Milly,” Buck called, “She said you were scared. I’m—Was it something I did, Stevie? I didn’t mean to scare you. Was it—oh. Oh, Stevie I didn’t mean to shake you like that pal, I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that right?”

Steve hated the thought that someone was calling him scared. He hated the word scared. He hated its Norse roots and he hated its spelling and he hated its connotation. He wasn’t scared. He was terrified, traumatized, and tormented by a man when he was fourteen and now those things felt more like night terrors than phantom pains and he couldn’t cope. He wasn’t scared. He was reliving a nightmare and it wasn’t enough to call what he was going through being ‘scared.’

“Stevie?” Buck was starting to sound more desperate, which was impressive given how desperate he already sounded, “Stevie, I would never hurt you. I didn’t mean to startle you or yell at you or rough you up, I promise. C’mon pal, please talk to me. I can’t—” he trailed off, the volume of his voice dropping with the words.

“I can’t,” he tried again, just a little louder.

“I can’t live without you, Steve. It’s you and me ‘til the end of the line, you know.”

And Steve didn’t think he had anymore tears to cry, but he’d been wrong before and he hiccupped and Buck must have heard him through the door again because Steve heard him turn to face the door and he started to sound desperate again.

“Buddy? Steve? Don’t cry, you’re gonna make me cry,” He said into the door’s wood. He sounded like that ship had already sailed. And Steve decided then and there that if he was going to trust anyone, it was going to be Buck. He rolled off the bed and, scrubbing his eyes on his sleeves, he made his way to the door. He couldn’t stop the sobs and he thought that seeing Buck and smelling Buck might send him into a panic attack, or at least an asthma attack, but it was either that or sit through this shit alone and he couldn’t handle that anymore. So he opened the door and Buck scrambled up from his knees and practically launched himself at him.

Buck didn’t smell like bourbon and he didn’t have facial hair and he wasn’t tall enough to be that man and the relief sent Steve into a whole new fit of sobbing. He let Buck wrap arms around him and pressed his face hard into his collarbone.

 

 

Buck couldn’t believe what Steve told him, and not because he couldn’t believe it (because he could and that hurt so fucking bad), but because Steve had been carrying it for seven years. He wanted to find that guy and break his teeth and break his ribs and smash his nose, but Steve told him that he never wanted to see him again and that even thinking about his teeth or his ribs or his nose made him want to curl up and vomit.

Buck also couldn’t believe that something like putting his hand next to Steve’s throat made him relive one of his worst nightmares and he absolutely couldn’t believe that Steve kept trying to apologize to _him_ for it.

He asked Steve what other things made him feel small and was rewarded with a list: cigarette smoke, pressure on his face and neck, the smell of bourbon, the scent of the dockyard, being carried, brunette, bearded white men about 6 feet two inches and two hundred pounds. He told Steve he’d always shave, he’d cut back on the smokes, and he’d never drink bourbon ever again.

Steve laughed at him and told him that it was okay, he could handle a lot of those things a lot of the time, but there were times when he couldn’t.

Buck didn’t know what else to say and he started to get overwhelmed. Steve, still curled up in his arms, noticed like the tiny, angry Saint he was, and laid out the groundwork.

“All I am asking from you is for you to not touch me without asking and, when I’m in a bad place, just ask me what I need.” He said, his breath puffing against Buck’s neck.

“What do you need?” Buck tried, and he got a sunshine smile in return.

“I need to say I’m sorry for the fights. I’ll try to rein it in,” Steve told him, sitting up in his lap, “And I need to say—” he was quiet for a beat, psyching himself up for the big one ”--that I think I love you, Bucky Barnes and thank you for helping me carry this.”

And Steve was being stupid brave; he stared Buck straight in the face, challenging him to throw his words away and trusting him not to do that. Buck’s face felt hot and his eyes got blurry.

“Well, Steven Grant, I think I might love you too. And you are always, _always_ welcome.”


End file.
